WOP Ch 5.6

“Everything?”

“Yes.”

A faint smile touched Ha Joyoon’s lips. He blinked slowly, his breath catching in his throat. Then, following Kwonjoo’s movement, his shadow stretched across the floor. His head tilted back as Kwonjoo rose from his crouched position. Their eyes met, the air charged with unspoken emotions.

“Come here.”

“…….”

When Joyoon simply stared at him, Kwonjoo grinned mischievously and extended his hand. The pre-dawn lobby was deserted, eerily silent.

“You never listen, do you?”

Kwonjoo pulled him into a gentle embrace, murmuring his complaint. Joyoon buried his face against Kwonjoo’s firm chest, inhaling the lingering scent of cigarettes. He thought about asking him to cut back, but the words remained unspoken. A large hand cupped his cheek.

Before he could react, Kwonjoo bent his head and kissed him. A brief, fleeting touch of cool warmth. He only registered the rough texture of Kwonjoo’s lips after he pulled away.

Forget everything.

His dark eyes whispered the words. Forget everything that happened between us. Joyoon tilted his head, unable to respond. The river of his emotions was finally reaching its destination.

He blinked slowly. He saw Shin Kwonjoo’s stoic face, his broad shoulders, and then, only the empty lobby remained in his vision. A wave of emotion crashed over him, leaving his heart pounding.

It was over. They had both acknowledged the end. And yet, a faint, persistent hope lingered. Someday, somehow…

❄

Philip Bauer’s reply arrived as summer was transitioning into autumn. Click. He opened his inbox, and the new email, which had arrived earlier that morning, was at the top of the list. He took a deep breath, ignoring the fluttering in his chest.

My friend, Yoon,

I hope this finds you well. Are you recovering well?

This reply comes to you under very difficult circumstances. The internet situation here has worsened. We often joke with colleagues that today was the worst day ever, only to find tomorrow brings even worse conditions.

Turkey is still blocking the border crossings to Europe, and with the government forces retaking the northeast, hundreds of thousands of refugees are once again fleeing towards the Mediterranean. It’s a repeating cycle. The shelling has intensified significantly compared to last year. They’re specifically targeting aid convoys carrying essential supplies and medicine. These are incredibly inhumane and brutal times.

I complain about how terrible it is, yet I can’t bring myself to leave. I believe you understand. Friends I’ve made here are dying almost every day.

Journalists are trying to maintain their boundaries, but those lines are becoming increasingly blurred. Many have already left Aleppo. I, too, am unsure how much longer I can stay.

Yoon,

I’m ashamed to admit that, despite being your role model, I haven’t lived a successful life. It’s embarrassing, and I don’t think I’m in any position to offer you advice.

Please consider the following words as simply the ramblings of someone who has experienced a bit more failure than you.

The conviction that led me to abandon all personal happiness can be seen as a one-sided, unconditional sacrifice. While it may seem noble and virtuous from a humanitarian perspective, it thrives on the utter destruction of one’s personal life.

Unless one is a saint, it’s difficult to sacrifice everything without expecting something in return. That reward could be monetary, social recognition, or even something intangible, like self-satisfaction, fulfillment, or a sense of purpose. And if that reward isn’t forthcoming, the lens through which you view the world becomes cold and bleak, distorted by cynicism and victimhood. I’ve experienced this firsthand.

Yoon, I both hope and don’t hope that you’ll come here. The you I knew was a pure, passionate young man. While I admired your passion and conviction, I also worried about your complete disregard for your own well-being.

I don’t believe you’re the type to expect a reward for your sacrifices, like I did. But I think it’s crucial to consider what will remain of your personal life when you’ve exhausted all your energy, when the cause is no longer enough.

On a personal note,

I hope that you’ll come and work alongside me when you’ve truly understood what is most important to you, the part of your life you can never let go of. I believe that understanding will give you the strength to live a healthier, longer life.

I must end this letter now as I have to attend to something urgent.

p.s. Your young friend, Cole, is doing well. Sadly, he had to have his hand amputated because they couldn’t remove all the shrapnel. But his physical disability hasn’t diminished his spirit. While he misses you dearly, he doesn’t demand to see you immediately. Consider this when planning your return. Just kidding, of course.

“…….”

A faint smile played on his lips as he stared at the screen. He reread the letter several times, as if trying to etch the words into his heart, before finally closing the window.

He had a feeling it would be a long time before he could reply.

❄

The room was a mess, clothes strewn everywhere. His hands moved awkwardly as he rummaged through the piles of clothing. A sigh from across the room made him pause. His mother, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, clicked her tongue and walked towards him.

“What a mess.”

“Uh…”

Joyoon looked up, his face creased in concentration. His hair, which had been cut short for the surgery, had grown out over the changing seasons, long enough to conceal the scar.

“I’ll clean it up.”

“I’m sure you will. Give them here.”

His mother snatched the clumsily folded clothes from his hands and began sorting through them expertly.

“They say the temperature fluctuates a lot. Why do you only have thin clothes?”

“It gets hot during the day. These are more comfortable. Hey, I need that one.”

His mother chuckled, rolling her eyes at his anxious expression.

“Anyone would think I’m stopping you from going. You’re practically in tears, my dear boy.”

Her affectionate tone made him smile.

“Mom.”

He leaned his forehead against her shoulder, nuzzling his head against her. The familiar scent of sunshine and warmth evoked a wave of nostalgia. She stroked his shoulder and back as he leaned against her. Her touch, as she caressed his slightly fuller frame, was filled with love.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

“I’m glad you know that.”

Her voice was filled with understanding rather than worry. She knew how hard he had worked over the past year, how much pain he had endured through rehabilitation and treatment, to earn her full approval. She couldn’t deny him any longer.

“Take care of yourself.”

Her wrinkled hand covered his. The warmth of her touch filled his heart.

“I will.”

“Don’t forget to call.”

“I will.”

Few words were exchanged between the stoic son and the emotionally expressive mother. There was no need.

There wasn’t perfect understanding between them. They knew that the parallel lines of their lives, shaped by different experiences and values, might draw closer, but would never intersect.

They simply acknowledged their differences and respected each other’s opinions, beliefs, and life choices.

And through countless mistakes and failures, Joyoon had learned, however clumsily, how to maintain that delicate balance, that minimum level of respect.

“Even though the hospital says you’re fine, you’ll come back for regular checkups, right?”

“…Yes.”

“And you’ll keep up with your exercises.”

“I’ll be running around like crazy, don’t worry.”

“Make sure you dodge the bullets.”

“At this point, I should just join the special forces…”

He chuckled at her nagging. A clear, bright laugh. His eyes, gentle yet resolute, were fixed firmly on his goal.

The summer he turned thirty-three.

A year after his second surgery, Ha Joyoon stood at another crossroads. It was the same decision he had made in the past, but this time, it was different. He wasn’t blindly charging forward, fueled by idealism and conviction. He had gained the tacit approval of his loved ones through careful consideration, empathy, and understanding. He knew what he had to do to maintain their trust.

“I’ll be going now.”

“…….”

“I won’t give you any reason to worry. I plan to live a long life and win a Pulitzer Prize.”

“Oh, my…”

His mother chuckled and covered his hand with hers, her touch warm and reassuring. It was her final blessing.

The night before his departure, his phone rang constantly. It was something he wouldn’t have imagined happening before. He was finally acknowledging the small community around him, the relationships he had built. Everyday people, not just his lover and his photography and his ideals. It was a precious gift, something he’d taken for granted.

—Yoon-Yoon! Are you packed? You’re leaving tomorrow, right?

“Jina.”

—I wanted to see you before you left, but I have an assignment in Guangzhou today. I wanted to call before you go. You won’t be able to use your phone there, right?

“Probably not…”

—You’re so reckless, Ha Joyoon. Who can stop you?

Song Jina’s grumbling voice was laced with concern. He gripped his phone tightly, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Jina,” he said, his voice hesitant, filled with affection.

“Thank you for keeping in touch with me.”

—Wow, I never thought I’d hear those words from you. Treating me like some random colleague. I thought you’d forgotten my name. Our relationship only exists because I kept pestering you, you know. Don’t you think so? And don’t even think about mistaking my interest for something romantic. Don’t even dream about it.

He laughed, relieved by her playful attempt to lighten the mood.

“I know. I’ll do better from now on…”

—Ha Joyoon, all grown up. Yes, you better treat me better. And take care of yourself wherever you go.

“I will. I promise.”

—Yoon-ah.

The playful tone vanished from Song Jina’s voice. “Yeah,” Joyoon replied softly, leaning against the window. A moment of quiet understanding passed between them.

—I told you before, right? You can’t protect anyone if you can’t protect yourself.

“…Yes.”

—You go fight your battles there. I’ll be fighting mine here.

I’m rooting for you.

They exchanged their final goodbyes, and even after the call ended, Joyoon stood there for a long time, lost in thought.

Finally, he started packing again. He looked at his neatly packed bag, his eyes filled with a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite define.

As he checked for any forgotten items, his gaze landed on something in his drawer. An old camera. He stared at it, his vision blurring.

“I wanted to return this to you.”

“…..”

“It’s yours.”

The day before he left for Germany, Kang Taejung had visited him in the hospital, carrying the old camera. A wave of bittersweet nostalgia washed over Joyoon as he looked at it. It wasn’t just a camera. It represented everything he had given back to Taejung during that cold, difficult time, when the wind, the air, and his own heart had been frozen with grief. It was a testament to their love, a symbol of its beginnings.

Kang Taejung had watched him, a gentle smile on his lips, as he held the camera.

“I loved you, but you were more than just a lover to me.”

“…..”

“You were my friend, my family.”

Echoing his own thoughts and feelings, Taejung had covered his hand, still holding the camera, with his own. The weight of the camera in his hand, amplified tenfold, settled in his chest.

“This camera was a gift from me, your friend.”

“Taejung…”

“So it’s your camera. Will you take it?”

He couldn’t remember exactly what he had said in response. He only remembered the emotions he’d felt, the weight of the life and feelings that remained in his hands.

He tore his gaze away from the camera and picked up the remaining clothes. The memories of their love, slowly fading, lingered in his eyes, his touch, his every movement.

After they parted ways, neither of them contacted the other. Joyoon hadn’t reached out either. As if following some unspoken agreement, he tried not to think about them, not to miss them – both Shin Kwonjoo and Kang Taejung. It had been a long time, and yet, it felt like no time at all. It would be a lie to say he hadn’t been lonely. It would be a lie to say he didn’t regret it.

But amidst the endless cycle of worry, anguish, and regret, he’d arrived at a single conclusion. To choose the path he desired most in this moment. It was the choice he made for himself, on a path where there was no one’s patience to consider, no one’s expectations to meet, no one’s sacrifices to repay.

❄

The airport was bustling with people. People leaving, people returning, people waiting. Joyoon walked through the crowded terminal, his gaze drifting over the sea of faces. His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Damien Boyle.

—[Yoon, are you at the airport?]

[Yes, I’m waiting.]

—[Don’t tell me you’re nervous and shaking in your boots?]

Joyoon chuckled, responding to his cheerful tone.

[Yes, I’m shaking like a leaf.]

Hahaha— Damien’s boisterous laughter echoed in his ear. He adjusted his heavy backpack, a sense of calm settling over him.

—[Have a safe trip. Yoon’s got your back over there, so get us some good shots. You know the drill, right?]

He appreciated the playful banter, but he also recognized the underlying concern for a colleague heading into a dangerous situation. He simply smiled in response. They chatted about work, about the situation in Syria, and then, as the conversation was winding down, Damien suddenly mentioned someone’s name.

—[By the way, did you ever properly sort things out with that guy back in Korea?]

He was setting his backpack down on a waiting area seat when he froze. He knew exactly who Boyle was talking about. He unconsciously tightened his grip on his phone and blinked slowly. A sudden, sharp pain pierced his chest.

[What are you talking about?]

“Forget everything.”

The memory, carefully buried, resurfaced without warning. The deserted hospital lobby, the man’s raw, vulnerable confession – it all played out before his eyes like a vivid hallucination.

—[It’s nothing. He used to ask about you quite often. I mentioned that you were leaving soon during a meeting, and he just laughed. I was expecting a bigger reaction, so I was a bit disappointed by his lack of response.]

[Haha.]

He hunched over, chuckling nervously, trying to mask his emotions. Despite the passage of time, the memories were vivid. His features, his voice, his scent, his touch – everything was as clear as if it had happened yesterday.

—[He’s back at headquarters temporarily.]

His eyelashes fluttered, shielding his eyes. He remembered Shin Kwonjoo’s last words, about returning to headquarters after his leave. He hadn’t heard anything about him since then, almost a year ago. He forced a casual tone.

[So he’s back.]

—[Yeah, he was in London for six months, setting up the new newsroom system that Avid developed. He’s just back for a progress check, and he’ll be leaving again soon.]

A brief summary of Shin Kwonjoo’s activities during their period of no contact. “I see,” he murmured, nodding slowly. A sudden gust of wind made him turn his head, searching for its source, but he saw only people hurrying towards their destinations.

…He seemed to be doing well. It wasn’t surprising, given his capabilities. He was relieved. He admired the man’s strength and resilience, his ability to navigate life’s storms. He clenched his hand around his knee, swallowing the wave of longing that threatened to overwhelm him. A fleeting expression of pain crossed his face.

Just then, an announcement echoed through the terminal.

“Turkish Airlines flight TK0091 to Istanbul is now boarding. Passengers with boarding passes, please proceed…”

The call to reality jolted him into action. He grabbed his backpack and stood up abruptly. His heart pounded, his breath coming in short, rapid gasps. He couldn’t distinguish between fear, anxiety, and anticipation.

[Boyle, I have to board.]

—[Oh, is it time already? Yoon, have a safe trip. We’ll be praying for you.]

[Thank you.]

He ended the call with a brief farewell, ignoring Damien’s surprise. He slipped his phone into his pocket and hurried towards the gate.

The faces around him were a kaleidoscope of emotions. Indifference, joy, anxiety, anger – a pastel palette of human experience.

He tightened his grip on his passport and boarding pass. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward. Memories surfaced, a suffocating wave constricting his chest.

He took another step. More memories, his heart pounding erratically.

Another step. Longing washed over him, his face stiffening. He took one final step. And then, he froze.

“…….”

The trigger was insignificant, almost trivial. He’d simply handed his boarding pass to the flight attendant.

That simple act had conjured the image of someone else, departing from Korea just like him. He remembered the man’s retreating figure, his lonely back as he walked through the deserted lobby. The man who had told him to forget everything, instead of saying “I love you.” And with that memory, the feelings he’d buried, denied, refused to name, resurfaced.

“Thank you. May I see your boarding pass…?”

The flight attendant, who had been about to scan his boarding pass, trailed off, staring at the handsome man standing before her, silently weeping.

“Sir, are you…?”

Ignoring her concerned voice, Joyoon handed her his boarding pass, tears streaming down his face. He didn’t even bother to wipe them away. He remembered the man’s awkward expression, the strange tremor in his hand as he pressed the slip of paper with the address into his hand. The six-digit code he’d memorized, repeated and reread countless times.

And finally, after this long, circuitous journey, Ha Joyoon had to admit the truth.

“Forget everything I said.”

The feelings he hadn’t dared to name.

“Don’t remember any of it.”

The words he hadn’t dared to speak.

“Forget it all.”

That feeling was also love.

It was love.

A different kind of love.

The complex emotions that had blossomed even as he loved and missed another, the selfish, cowardly, and desperate feelings he hadn’t been able to acknowledge – they were, undeniably, another form of love.

His tears were still warm.

He was alone, with no clear path ahead. He hadn’t fully processed the emotions that had taken root amidst the wreckage of his past love. He was still immature, slow, selfish, clumsy, and unskilled. But the feeling deep within his heart had taken root, stronger than ever before.

Philip,

I haven’t finished the assignment you gave me yet. I’m still alone, and I’m still searching for what’s most important to me. But as someone once sang, even if I can’t be a bridge in this harsh world, I want to be the eyes that see the wounds, that don’t turn away from the pain. And when I return, after a long time has passed, if his offer still stands…

Perhaps… perhaps then, I’ll finally be able to tell him something.

He walked past the still-flustered flight attendant, his gaze fixed straight ahead, and stepped onto the plane. A step towards an uncertain future.